


The Judge and the Judged

by nereidee (aurasama)



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Vaan is a Judge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25229437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurasama/pseuds/nereidee
Summary: "The fullness of his face suggests that he's not even past twenty. Hardly old enough to be called a man, let alone a Judge."After a failed attempt at stealing from the Royal Palace's treasure room during the consul's fete, Balthier finds himself facing an interrogation with a Judge Magister – a handsome Dalmascan youth named Vaan.Written for BalVaan Week 2020, day 6: Judge.
Relationships: Balthier/Vaan (Ivalice Alliance)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21
Collections: BalVaan Week





	The Judge and the Judged

Balthier doesn't struggle as the soldiers drag him into a side room. His arms are bound behind his back, manacles fastened around his ankles. They pat him down quickly and remove his accessories and weapons. Their attention falters as footfalls come thundering down the hall, all marching to the same pace.  
  
The door is thrown open and Balthier knows what's coming even before he sees it. A Judge Magister, wearing full battle armour, walks in, flanked by a dozen armed soldiers. Even with the helmet on they're shorter than Balthier, and their steps leave the hollow echo that always marks a Judge's gait. A Betelgeuse hangs from their belt on the left and a long, foreign-looking dagger on the right. A strange weapon for a Judge to wield, Balthier thinks, just as the captain of the battalion that captured him steps out and blocks it from view.  
  
“This is the thief, your grace,” the captain says and bows respectfully.  
  
The Judge turns towards them. Balthier eyes them silently, careful to keep his expression blank. The helmet is of an unfamiliar design, and try as he might he cannot recall having seen a Judge Magister with this armour before. A new recruit, perhaps; if it is, they've risen through the ranks fast.  
  
“Look what the cat brought in,” the Judge says, practically drawling. A young man, judging by the voice. “The infamous Balthier. Not a bounty I came to collect, yet it has been served to me on a silver platter regardless. Must've been a generous fete tonight, much like the Lord Consul told me.”  
  
Balthier freezes. The voice that echoes underneath the Judge's helmet carries an unmistakeable lilt to it that not even cold metal can suppress entirely. His speech could be that of an Archadian nobleman down to the last word, but Balthier recognises the accent instantly; he's Dalmascan. It sends a chill down Balthier's spine, and for the first time since his capture he's unnerved.  
  
Judges, the symbol of Archadia's might and power. There is something decidedly perverse about seeing a Dalmascan acting the part one and serving in the highest ranks of their very oppressor.  
  
“I was under the impression that there was a viera with him,” the Judge says. “Where is she?”  
  
“My men are looking for her as we speak, Judge Vaan. They tried to escape the castle through Garamsythe.”  
  
Even the man's name is distinctly Dalmascan. None of the men react, and Balthier can tell this comes as no surprise to any of them.  
  
The Judge laughs, a cold, humourless laugh that echoes beneath the helmet. “She can't go far. Take your men to Lowtown immediately, captain. There is an entrance to the waterways through the warehouses that I'm sure she's hoping to use to escape.”  
  
“At once, your grace. Do you require reinforcements?”  
  
“There is no cause for concern. I'll handle our prisoner here.”  
  
The captain bows again and motions to his men. They file out of the room in a long line, and Judge Vaan turns to the soldiers accompanying him.  
  
“Your orders, your grace?”  
  
“You two, stand guard behind the door. See that we are not interrupted. I wish to speak with the prisoner in peace. The rest of you, to the castle cellar with the Lord Consul's men. Take the entrance to the waterways and leave no stone unturned.” Judge Vaan takes something that looks like a key from the pouch hanging from his belt. “Unlock the overflow cloaca if she doesn't show up. Either she comes out or she drowns, I care not.”  
  
His voice is icy, uncaring, and there is the slightest concern for Fran in Balthier's mind now. With her nose she might have found a way out of the sewers by now, but too many things have gone wrong tonight for him to trust it. The Gods continue to toy with them, it seems.  
  
“Yes, your grace, at once.”  
  
When the soldiers leave and the door closes behind them Vaan removes the dagger from his belt. It's curved, the handle intricately decorated with carvings, and Balthier recognises it at last. A weapon of Dalmascan-make, made for close combat. Vaan holds it up towards the door, murmuring softly. The air quivers and Balthier feels the smallest tremour pass through him.  
  
“Weird,” Vaan mutters. He lifts the dagger again, repeats the spell, and Balthier thinks the door glimmers faintly for a heartbeat. Vaan sheathes the dagger again.  
  
“Your soldiers aren't of much use if they cannot come to your aid,” Balthier quips, and Vaan turns to face to him. “How were you thinking to send for help if you've sealed the door?”  
  
“Don't need 'em to deal with a pirate.”  
  
“Quite confident, aren't you?”  
  
“I'm the one asking the questions. You've taken something from the castle, right? What is it?”  
  
Balthier smirks. “I wonder.”  
  
Vaan doesn't respond. He pulls off the helmet to reveal a head of pale, sun-bleached hair and bronze skin, confirming Balthier's earlier suspicions. He's young, even younger than Balthier thought. The fullness of his face suggests that he's not even past twenty. Hardly old enough to be called a man, let alone a Judge.  
  
He places the helmet on the table where Balthier's weapons and gear have been placed. His hand hovers over each thing and he picks up the gun, holding it up to measure it against the magicite light before placing it back on the table.  
  
He walks to Balthier, expression unreadable. His hand is outstretched and it makes a minute gesture, fingers twitching lightly as though feeling the air.  
  
“What d'you have in your pockets?” he asks.  
  
Balthier almost smiles at him. He can't help it; there's something oddly endearing about the way he slips back into the Rabanastran street accent while out of the soldiers' earshot.  
  
“Why don't you see for yourself instead of trusting the word of a pirate?” Balthier suggests.  
  
Vaan brings a hand underneath his chin and tilts it back with a finger. For a while he doesn't say anything. There is no life or warmth left in his brown eyes, and Balthier cannot help but wonder if it was his occupation or the loss of his homeland – or perhaps both – that extinguished them.  
  
This up close he's almost startlingly handsome, or would be, if not for the armour he's wearing. It does not become him, Balthier thinks. The last place he'd look for beauty is under a Judge's helmet.  
  
“So this is the notorious Balthier,” Vaan says. “Never thought I'd meet you like this. You look prettier than you do in the posters.”  
  
“You flatter me.”  
  
He leans closer, eyes flitting from Balthier's eyes to his nose, mouth. Balthier can feel his breath against his lips, and he doesn't know what it is that he feels when their eyes meet again. Were he not in his current predicament he'd want to close the distance between them, just to know if there's any softness left in the boy or his lips. The thought is tempting, incredibly so, and Balthier's heart picks up its pace the longer he spends thinking about it. He blinks, and for one wild second he pictures Vaan running his fingers through his hair before shoving him against the wall.  
  
Vaan wets his lips, still quite firmly staring at Balthier's, and the pirate wonders if he isn't thinking of the same thing. He manages to sound hesitant when he says, “gotta say the price on your head is impressive, even for a sky pirate. Guess I can see why.”  
  
Balthier pushes the thought away, the illusion breaking as though doused with cold water. He wants to curse the Gods and their capricious games to the deepest pit of hell for gracing a Judge with such a face.  
  
“The bounty is for my partner and I both, I believe,” Balthier corrects him, but Vaan just smiles. It doesn't soften his features one bit.  
  
“Nice try,” he says softly. “You know the bounty hunter's only interested in you. Her life isn't part of the bargain. If she doesn't surrender willingly, we won't bother taking her alive.”  
  
Balthier's hands ball into fists.  
  
“I can tell why a son of Dalmasca would become a Judge. You lack not the cold-heartedness of one,” Balthier replies. “The names they must call you on the streets of your own hometown.”  
  
Vaan's expression hardens. He drops his gaze and turns his attention of the bags still hanging from Balthier's belts instead. He quirks an eyebrow as he finds the Goddess' Magicite and tugs it out of the bag.  
  
“So that's what it was,” he says, turning the stone around in his hand. “I thought something was messing with my spell.”  
  
To Balthier's amazement he puts it in his own pocket, its glow vanishing instantly.  
  
“Not just a traitor but a thief as well, I see,” Balthier says coldly.  
  
Vaan yanks him by the collar, brows drawn into a scowl. For once there's emotion in his eyes; fury.  
  
“Shut up. You don't know anything about me,” he hisses between gritted teeth. He pauses at the telltale sound of running footsteps, approaching, and someone shouts. Vaan lets go of him and grabs his helmet from the table.  
  
“So tell me, thief,” Balthier says as the footsteps come closer, “what kind of man steals from his own people if not a traitor?”  
  
“Not from my people, but for my people. _This_ I'm at least taking back. It's the least I can do.” He squares his shoulders and glares back at Balthier almost defiantly. With such a look on his face he suddenly looks his age. “And it's Vaan, not thief.”  
  
Balthier can only stare at him.  
  
“Judge Vaan!” the captain's voice calls suddenly and there's a loud rapping on the door.  
  
“Be seein' you, pirate,” Vaan says quietly and turns away. He flicks his hand and the door shimmers once more. The soldiers flood the room seconds later, their captain in the lead. “What is it, captain?”  
  
“We have her, your grace,” the man pants. “She was not alone; we arrested her along with a woman from the resistance.”  
  
Vaan smiles that cold, calculated Judge's smile again. He puts the helmet back on, and when he speaks again his voice echoes with the Archadian speech once more. As strong a guise as the helmet he wears; Vaan dons both with ease that both intrigues and terrifies Balthier in equal measure.  
  
“Inform the Lord Consul that we're departing. Bring the prisoners. We make for Nalbina.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a slightly sinister spin to Vaan, and what better occasion that making him wear the title of Judge? Sometimes the fastest way to seek revenge is through the very heart of the enemy. I think he'd always slip back to the Dalmascan dialect when he's in any way agitated, or when he's alone, though, revealing some of his true character.


End file.
